there's nothing i won't understand
by moeten
Summary: Her earliest memories: still small, sitting on Harlequin's shoulder, or older, bigger, leaning against him, against instead of upon it.


It's not like reading a book, reading hearts.

Ban asks Elaine about it once — more than once, curiosity and forgetfulness and confusion, when he knows enough to know that she decided to trust him that day. Knew she could. How? He'd asked, reserved and hesitant (he wouldn't use those words, but she'd felt his mind drawing back, the tendrils and wet-leaves doubt; she had no reason to and i can't believe she and the warmer shoots, but she did and she's here) — she'd tried to explain. It was more like a taste, a color. Intent and texture, color and feeling.

Each heart is different.

Ban's is clean and clear as water, cold like the springs flowing over rocks in the Fairy King's Forest; minerals and seeds and life, every doubt and fear and feeling rippling under the surface. She should have known, she thinks: she should have known from the beginning. Her memory of the taste of the fountain: it had been the same. The Forest knew. She knows. She looks at his heart even though she doesn't have to, even though she knows without needing to check: the privilege of knowing someone, loving, but she likes to read it anyway, feel the cool clarity.

Helbram's had been cool-mint, fresh and bright, burned into cool metal and sharp in her nose, his soul in her brother's helmet, roses and cold thorns calling out to her the moment she'd seen her brother again. Diane's was sweet and bright like summer fruit, fresh and tart, bubbling with joy and curiosity. Elizabeth's was slow and deep, a great tree, warm wood and quiet leaves. She reads them all, peeks in and out: it's rude for humans to do this, Elaine understands: she tries not to, to only skim upon the surface and avoid the darker corners, the rotten places that her friends do not share. But she's read hearts as long as she's talked and breathed and flown, when she was small and freshly budded, and she always goes back. The glassy polish of Meliodas, fresh and cool and gently reflective; impenetrable. The rich heat of Merlin; the sharp ice of Gowther.

Cool sweet water.

Her brother's had always been the heart Elaine had known best. Her earliest memories: still small, sitting on Harlequin's shoulder, or older, bigger, leaning against him, against instead of upon it. The sweet citrus smell of him, and the green warmth of his heart. Moss in the sun. The forest, alive and growing, sunny and bright. Bees buzzing, warm honey, green. The Fairy King's heart was the forest's heart, the Sacred Tree as a soul. Her brother had no secrets from her, although he tried and lied and pretended: many nights they'd sleep side by side in the moss or spidersilk hammocks, Elaine feeling for his heart and the hum of it to soothe her to sleep. Growth and power and protection; silly thoughts about silly human things and Helbram. Races and card games and branches of the Sacred Tree. She doesn't ask; she's never asked. He's her brother.

Her brother's heart was the forest.

When they meet again, when she's breathing and solid and tired, lightheaded and in pain and alive, a little hungry and sore-throated and dizzy with happiness: when she's met Jericho (new wine, fruity and strong) and Escanor (dry grass, warm earth) and Ban, Ban, Ban —

When she's been helped to her feet by Ban and when her brother meets her after three steps and already crying when she falls into his arms, Oslo circling them both —

When all that has happened and they're resting while Escanor and Ban prepare the shipment to Vaizel, she leans against her brother as she has so many times long, long before, and she peeks into his heart.

And it's gone.

The honey warmth, the green moss: it's darkened and decayed. Dry leaves and wet soil, wet stone. A room deep underground with no windows and a barred door: her brother sitting on a bed there with no blanket.

In the land of the dead she had not looked in on him, too angry for the first decade or so, still nursing her grudges. She'd seen him with Ban later — seen straight through his disguise, and been angry that he was so in hiding. Watched him and Ban argue, become friends. Even taken her brother's side, in the afterlife, when Ban had taken all those toy animals.

She'd expected to still be angry, believed she still was, until the moment she'd seen her brother again. He'd already started to cry before they'd even embraced.

It wasn't the same rush and lodestar pull as Ban, the ache and need and pain until she'd touched him, kissed him, felt him breathing under her fingers. It was a different ache, warmer and smaller but still a relief.

But his heart had changed. The slow buzzing warmth has turned to dry leaves and bare branches.

What happened to you, she'd asked the moment she'd laid her head upon her brother's shoulder, like all those thousands of times before. And as with every other time, she hadn't asked aloud, hadn't needed to. What happened, damp cold stones, a forest in autumn, and she'd seen and known. The bright berry sweetness of Diane, her first impression of the giant's heart, warmer and less tart in her brother's thoughts of her, more orange than pink — Helbram's sharp wintergreen, roses and mud. A burnt and decaying forest.

There were dark pools in Ban's heart, deeper waters, cold instead of fresh. She knew them all, explored them all, seen her own reflection in a few. Everyone had dark spots, hidden spots in their hearts, even her Ban. Some wore them like bruises and others hid them as mirrors. She didn't look too deeply at them, even in humans and giants, except for Ban. Except for her brother.

She'd kicked among those leaves, looking for the warm gold, the bees she'd missed so, the slow growing moss. The moon had been full and rising, the night cool, almost cold. He'd asked her — in words — are you too cold? Let's sit by the fire! — the fire Jericho (unaged wine, I'm tired — what the hell am I doing here — Ban — so that girl — so King is — Ban — this is stupid/this sucks/I hate this/it hurts — how long will it take?) had built and let fall to embers already.

The cold feels nice, she'd said to her brother, because it was almost too cold, uncomfortably cold, but in the Land of the Dead there was nothing like that, everything muted and still, and she can feel it again.

After they'd embraced but before this point, before the hill and the moon and the cold, her brother had apologized. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault, he'd said, aloud and with his heart, the guilt a thick pool, rust colored and copper tasting. What happened, she'd thought. Realized. Noticed. Everyone had dark pools and bruises, but she hadn't known hearts could change so deeply.

Brother? she'd asked, sitting on the hill. Who is Diane?

A burst, a beam: sweet juice and sunshine and reddish-pink sunrise. Well, she's a giant. She's another one of our comrades, her brother had said, blushing, his tone serious and face red and heart thinking of her and her smile and sweetness.

I know that, Elaine had said, sighing impatiently, but happy. I saw her while watching over Ban.

You keep saying Ban. Didn't you watch over me? I'm your brother after all, he had said, sulking, wisps of a sort of jealousy and annoyance and Ban not being good enough for her ringing his words.

I don't even know what that means, she'd said with a disappointed sniff. 'Good enough?' My Ban has never abandoned me.

Brown leaves rotting into the earth, wind on bare branches. But she hadn't apologized. But she also hadn't meant to. Harlequin was still her brother. She'd pressed herself against him, shifted her head against his shoulder. I know about Diane, but who is she to you, brother?

Warmth. His heart and Ban's heart were so different in taste and feeling, but so the same. Easy and clear, effortless and familiar. And predictable.

She's… like Ban is… I guess, he'd said, reluctantly offering her a small blessing.

A child, an older girl, a warm cave, soup, dying flowers. She'd wanted to ask about Helbram, but hadn't then, spoke to him herself later. It had been good to talk to him again, good and bad and comforting and painful. They were both between living and dead. His heart had changed too; had hers?

You've changed, brother, she'd said softly against his shoulder.

That's probably true, he'd said.

Your heart…

She'd said.

Ban's heart is cool and sweet and clear. She's small and he's large, even for a human, and she loves to lie curled beside him, surrounded by him, the human smell of his body (a smell she had hated before him), the freshwater of his heart.

There isn't much time for it, lying together. Lying in bed is all she ever does: in bed or in chairs or on couches. She tries not to complain: it's better than dying. She can make some errands, short walks. Elizabeth and Diane visit with her. Her brother. Ban every moment he can. Her energy is like a well: builds up and depletes fast. She saves it for when she can and pays for it with rest. Tries not to complain or feel like a burden. She's alive. But Elaine has spent too much of her long life sitting on one place to like it now.

Meliodas dies. Bruises and shadows creep over everyone like moss. Her heart aches for them; she doesn't know Meliodas (has never been able to peer at his heart), not well, but Ban loves him, loves him, his feelings for his captain like Elaine's for her brother, the same solid heavy ties, and she aches for her Ban more than anything. Her brother asks if she'd like to return to the Fairy King's Forest — her brother's forest, Ban's forest, her forest — with him. She does want to, of course she does, but she won't leave Ban and he won't leave his captain's side. Harlequin offers Diane's family a place to stay and recover in the forest and leaves with them.

It's unheard of for outsiders, giants and humans, to live in the forest. But it's her brother's forest more than anyone else's, and so. And so Elaine doesn't argue against the idea. There are green shoots in her brother's heart, creeping above the dead leaves.

Meliodas returns from the Land of the Dead, and Ban's heart stirs and flows and warms, sunshine on water. They're busy and they're happy and they celebrate, she celebrates with Ban, tastes it and him and his heart, feeling the new fervor and energy. There's fear and doubt and the Ten Commandments — but there's hope and new life, the captain is back again. They all keep thinking it, proclaiming it in their hearts and minds: The Captain! Is back! Again!

Her brother returns with wings like a sunburst.

(Diane's sweetness has aged and tempered, golden cider, memories — A boy, a kind boy, a warm cave, soup, fresh flowers.)

There are trees and flowers and sunny stones and moss in her brother's heart, wings fluttering, acorns, rainbows. The Sacred Tree's roots deep in the earth (cider in the earth, in the rocks and under the ground, golden), leaves straining for the light. His wings are small and Morpho blue, and Ban keeps teasing him and Elaine stays out of it but for the second time finds herself, at the later party, taking her brother's side over Ban's. Slow buzzing. Warm honey. Golden and still.

She finds a moment later in the evening to rest her head on his shoulder. He's thinking of Diane again. As ever. As always.

Everyone's doing well, he says, thinking of the forest, knowing she's peeking in at his heart. The faces of their friends, of the First King, Diane's family. He thinks about them so she can see them too.

Your heart… she says.

He's never been good at it, ridiculous for the Fairy King, but she feels him try and peer into her own heart. Yeah, he says calmly, deep contentment, warm green moss on granite.

But your wings are really small, she adds, can't help herself.

Elaine! Don't you take their side too! he pouts, thinking of Ban and Meliodas and the First King (and Diane, and a kiss and a promise and a forest); no one respects him, he thinks to himself in a sulk, and Elaine agrees. Disagrees.

There is a reflection of herself in her brother's mind. Sun in a field. A breeze in the stalks. Dim — he's never read hearts like she has — but warm. A quiet field of sunflowers.


End file.
